Chance and Timing
by TheLadyTell
Summary: From her childhood, she found herself where she needed to be if not where she wanted to be. This is the story of how she changed history and won the heart of a king.
1. Chapter 1

"Elphir," said the little girl tugging at her eldest brother's tunic. He kept walking, glancing briefly at her as she padded lightly after him. His long strides took him half-way down the hall in a few moments. "El-phir," she said again more insistently as he turned a corner disappearing from sight. She made a little sound of frustration in her throat before chasing him around the corner.

_Why did her legs have to be so short?_ With a shriek she collided against his sturdy form, as he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her on his shoulder, continuing his walk. "What, most irritating of little sisters, is so important that you have to tell me?" He asked tickling her dirty feet with his other hand.

"Kicking her feet, she squirmed around trying to look at him. "Elanor, the new scullery maid, says that you must have near-on six feet on you, but I know for a fact that you have only two."

"Oh did she now Lothi? Did you set her straight then?" he said setting her back on her feet. "Or did you have to check first?"

"Well Gurvel in the village said his cousin in Lossarch knows a fellow with six fingers..." she trailed off, examining his boots studiously. "Maybe she just meant toes, or she's daft. That's what Cook says," she said with all the exaggerated seriousness of a six-year-old. They stared at each other for a moment, Lothiriel's eyes darting furtively back to her brother's boots with all the subtlety she could muster. And for moment it looked like he meant to just walk away, but backing up to the wall he hauled off one boot and wiggled his stocking-covered toes at her.

_One, two, three, four, five..._

"Well, if you are satisfied that I possess only the acceptable number of digits and members, I shall take my leave." He said shoving his foot back into the boot and working the laces.

"Well, where are you going now? Can I come?"

"Council, and no."

"But I know my letters and my numbers and Papa says you only come to the interesting council meetings, so why can't I? I'll be quiet."

"One, I suspect mother expects you in the solar, and two I don't believe you can be quiet. And anyway you're a little girl you've no business at a council meeting. It's bad enough when mother tries to sit in."

"But..."  
"No buts." And with that Elphir started to continue on his way toward the council chambers, before calling back to the sulking Lothiriel, "don't forget to tell the scullery maid about your findings." His chuckle echoed down the hall, leaving her frustrated. But at least she had a destination.

Technically speaking, she wasn't allowed in the kitchens. But then again, technically there were a lot of things she wasn't supposed to do. It helped that she was pretty, and the only granddaughter of a well-liked prince, but more than that she had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps she just had a knack for being everywhere so probability was in her favor. At any rate as she peeked her head into the kitchens, her glance fell on a rather sizable stack of flaky buns currently unattended. Their aroma permeated the air, wafting around and teasing her nostrils mingling with the smell of roasting meat and rosemary. This almost made up for being left out of everything, but she still wanted to know what was so interesting that _Elphir_ was going to council.

She'd wrapped her little paw around the still-warm bun when she heard an unfamiliar voice raise above the murmur in the servant's hall next room over. Nibbling on it, slowly approached the doorway. "The lords can sit in their council all day debating policy, but it won't bring back my family. They feel untouchable behind their great walls, but not all of us are so fortunate. I want those monsters dead, no matter the cost." She'd heard her brothers talk of battle and minstrels sing the lays of ages past, but never anything like this. He sounded so -angry, or scared she couldn't tell, but there was nothing glorious about it. It was all so confusing and he kept talking, but he was using words she didn't know and pounding his fist on the table, when he noticed her standing in the doorway eyes wide as saucers.

Gesturing at her, he shouted "why don't the great lord put his little girl outside these walls and see if he'll sit with his tankard at the table and argue acceptable risk? My little girl were not even so big as you when they came, while I was off rescuing stolen grain for the Steward. Those monsters killed my little girl. Slit her throat, while I fought a trade war."

By this time Cook had scooped her up, and was rushing back through the kitchen demanding to know why none of the workers had stopped her in the kitchens as one of the servants hauled the man away urging him to stop. A few minutes more she was just outside the door to her room with Cook still cooing over her, telling her everything was alright. But it wasn't alright, she hadn't understood all that he said. It would be some years before it all made sense, but she knew someone had died and no one had stopped it and there had to be some way to change that. Until then, nothing was alright.


	2. Chapter 2

The Prince and his son sat, lingering with their cups in the council chamber after the others had left. They sat in silence each in his own thoughts; the news had not been good. War was at least some years off, but the enemy was more organized than it had been in years. More troubling still was the news that the messengers from Minas Tirith spoke of scouts sent out to Mordor who had not returned. The darkness was growing, of that there could be no mistake. What to was to be done was another matter.

The meeting had been less a concourse of discussion and more a declaration of the Lord Denethor's intention going forward. And his "intention," that, while if it worked would knock the wind from their enemies' sails, lacked caution. Further it would involve the conscription of many men, especially from the Princedom of Dol Amroth.

At last Adrahil broke the silence, punctuating his frustration with a smack on the table. "He's high-handed, Imrahil. He may be the Steward, but he is not the King. I mean to give him a piece of my mind when I go to the White City next."

"Father. What good will it do to draw his attention further here? Yes this plan is risky, but his information has been accurate, more accurate than even our informants in Umbar. We have recovered much thought lost to piracy. And you cannot ignore the morale boost when men captured the flagship and towed it back to port at Tolfalas. We are making progress, this may be the best way to safeguard the future."

"Perhaps, but you heard the report Lord Alcarin gave of his man, what happened to his family. And five other villages down the coast burned. The Shadow is growing yes, and that fills me with dread, but even so. What good are ships filled with warriors if they've no homes to return to? Or worse yet sent off to land skirmishes against orcs and darker evils. I must speak to Denethor about the impressment. We are not pirates nor are we tyrants. What good is it to fight the darkness in the East, if we build ourselves into its likeness in the process? And now with this proposal for a new campaign in the East, we will be spread too thin. No, I cannot accept it. I must speak with the Steward."

"Well clearly I am not going to dissuade you father, but tread lightly. Something tells me there will be trouble before the end."

"Do you think I'm going to force my way into the throne room? Remember Imrahil, who trained you for all that cool-headed reasoning you prize so highly? The Greenfest is less then a fortnight night away. I will write to the Steward and advise him of my misgivings. Perhaps he will see wisdom. If not, I will have the opportunity to reason with him then," he finished as he rose from the table with a groan.

Imrahil rose with him clasping his father's arm to steady him, "Imrahil, never get old, it is such a bothersome experience," he said with a grin.

Despite his age, Lord Adrahil bore himself with a dignity and grace that evinced his elven ancestry. He was tall and broad, like his son and grandsons after him, with a beard that grew white and bushy on his chest. And though sorrow and the growing shadow had turned his dark hair snowy white and furrowed his brow, his eyes were bright and keen as ever, and his wit crackly and good-humored.

"Lord Adrahil, there is a messenger waiting for you when you have finished."

"Very well, I will see him now in my study."

The messenger wore the livery of the steward's household, and Adrahil could not help but wonder how many messages that proud son-in-law of his could send in one day. But as soon as he handed the parcel over the Prince recognized the smooth, fluid script of his grandson Faramir. Immediately his eyes shot up to the messenger who stood unblinking in the corner of the room.

"I assume you were instructed to return with a response?" He asked as he broke the seal on the missive and began to read.

_Grandfather,_

_I hesitate to write, for this may be nothing, but then again, if it is something I think it best that I tell someone. You have always believed me and now I ask your counsel. Father has been acting strangely of late. He is more distant, spending more time alone in the high tower. The most recent loss of one our best scouts seems to have been a turning point of some kind though. It is as though he is simultaneously more wary of the Enemy and bolder in his offense, like an animal backed into a corner that still sees one chance at escape. No that is not quite right, but perhaps to lesser degree, something tells me there is some trap unfolding. But what can I claim to know of these things, I'm young and I know that. And all of this I would ignore, attribute it to the slow struggle with the Shadow, but for this dream. These past two weeks, I have dreamed the same dream and always it stays with me._

_In my dream I am a child, playing seven stones with my friends. As we begin I look to my friends and discover that my Father is the receiver at the end and my tongue cleaves to my mouth with sudden panic. I know then that my message is dire, one of hope in the darkest hour and must arrive to him intact. I whisper it into the ear of the first child and then watch in horror as it mutates with their laughter, from child to child. After all it is just a game and they laugh at my distress as much as the mangled message. And here I would let it lie, thinking as you probably do that it was just some adolescent fear of misunderstanding, but for the last part. For the final boy as he laughs, ready to whisper in my father's ear, transforms taking the form of a man cloaked and hooded in black, his laughter now sharp and piercing. When he speaks to him, delivering the broken message, my father's face seems to lose all hope. His eyes seem to see some terrible scene unfolding before him. Weeping, he backs away flinging aside all offers of help and casts himself into a burning pyre. Then I awake. _

_I do not know what kind of horror could cause my father such despair, but I fear this change that I see. My father is a good man, but a proud one. I only hope that you may prove my misgivings false or be the voice of wisdom in his ear._

_Faramir_

Adrahil read it once, then twice, chewing on his mustache. He didn't know what to make of it. He desperately wished he could simply write off the youth, but Faramir was not prone to hasty conclusions. In fact, he often undersold the importance of matters and so this letter was all the more alarming. Snatching up a piece of parchment, he quickly began to form a reply.

_Faramir, _

_You were right to write me. I fear I must ponder your letter more before I might advise you. I had planned a visit to the City in a fortnight, but this letter has convinced me that haste is needed. You are right, your father is a proud man, stubborn even, say nothing on this matter. We'll see how far my age and stubbornness get me._

_Grandfather_

He handed off the missive to the messenger and bid him good journey. He sank into the chair at his desk with the letter laying in front of him as sections leaped off the page at him. He set it aside, telling himself he would come back to it once he had finished with some of the mounting paperwork on his desk. As he shuffled through the reports detailing crop yields and port tariffs he began to hum idly as he worked, finally picking up a part of the rhyme, "seven stars and seven stones and one white tree..." The pieces fell together and he dropped the papers he was holding. Denethor had one of the Palantir.


End file.
